Sweet Nothings

I was thinking about how with Argus, as well as in life, victories and triumphs are sometimes small and barely noticeable, but important nonetheless.

Last night I trudged out to feed the horses later than usual, and by the time I pulled on my funny old orange down coat (the one Argus likes), it was dark and strangely quiet outside. Even the frogs were taking a break from their usual evening chorus.

Standing for a moment in the unlit barn, I paused to let the darkness envelop me. A quiet symphony of horse sounds greeted me, from the soft grunting of our food-oriented mule to the rustling of hooves in straw. Here and there, I could hear the rhythmic crunch-crunch-crunch of horses munching soft piles of grass hay.

I stood there, eyes closed, letting the sounds and smells of horses surround me.

Out of the darkness, and barely audible, an unsure nicker floated toward me. A throaty, low, raspy sound, unfamiliar to me, coming from the second stall on the right. A smile crept across my face.

Argus.

He has been here for nearly two months now, and I've heard him whinny at other horses, but never at people or even the approaching green feed cart, whose promising squeaks make most horses weak in the knees.

I stood quietly for another moment, hoping to hear that blessed sound again. But as quickly as it floated down the barn aisle to me, it was gone.

The moment over, the lights on. I am standing in front of Argus' stall. He is looking at me impatiently, merrily.

"What?" I ask, "What do you want, Argies? Your food?"

He blinks solemnly, surveying me. I turn and walk into the feed room. Then it comes again, almost like a whisper: Argus' first attempt to nicker to me. I grin from ear to ear, big tears pooling in my eyes, and start to mix grain.